


late night when you need my love

by justkatherinetheokay



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: (this will actually matter later truly), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Communication Failure, Drunk Texting, M/M, Texting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-01 00:45:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5185769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkatherinetheokay/pseuds/justkatherinetheokay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Alexander gets drunk, he often does, says, and texts a lot of things he probably shouldn't. Still, the only times he's woken up to find he's done something he actually regrets were, number one, that time he hit on his econ professor's wife, and number two, the time he sent Jefferson that dick pic.</p><p>This morning is about to become number three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. they'll tell the story of tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander tends to be pretty verbose no matter the format, but give him a phone and a bottle of wine and he loses any semblance of self-control as far as what he texts. Mostly, this is hilarious, but every once in a while (read: about once a week) he manages to text someone something potentially life-ruining.
> 
> Tonight is one of those nights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I titled this fic the way I did I hate me  
> (I can't believe I wrote this fic at all tbh)
> 
> So anyway, sometime last week I was sitting in the far corner of the top floor of the library (where I live now. Barely even exaggerating) when a scene that will come later in this story popped into my head. And then my head started filling out the narrative space around it. So a self-indulgent college au was born.

  


Twentysomething Mutant Ninja Turtle 

  


Sunday 10:23 PM 

(Johnnnnnnnnn) 

_(Yo)_

(John where are youuuuuuuu) 

_(My room?)_

_(Where should I be?)_

(Ew) 

(You should be here instead) 

(W/ me and da boyz) 

_(Wait, where are you?)_

(There’s two pints of sam adams w ur name on them) 

(Maybe 3 if you come soon enough) 

(lol where do u thinkkkk) 

_(A bar somewhere idk)_

(DING DING DING) 

(We’re at Fraunces yo) 

(Were gonna get almost as smashed as the grapes pls come) 

(Join us john) 

(Join us) 

_(Wow so this week’s Monday morning Alex is going to be even more of a wreck than usual)_

_(Psyched tbh)_

(Pshaw) 

(I’ll be FINE) 

(I wrote a term paper hungover once and got an A) 

_(only cause Washington loves you)_

(BAHAHA tru) 

  


Sunday 10:47 PM 

(Johnnnnn) 

_(No)_

(JOHNNNNNNNNN) 

(pls come Lafayette might leave us and we gotta have 3 to be a crowd) 

_(Alex it is Sunday night)_

(Do I care) 

(vi-NO) 

(viNO John get it) 

_(Wow)_

_(That was a stretch)_

(:D) 

(I am a comic genius) 

_(Nah if anything your genius is tragic)_

(wow ok) 

(fuck u too) 

_(Say no to drugs kids)_

  


Sunday 11:19 PM 

(So ur not coming?) 

_(I thought that had been established)_

(idk mannnnn I’m drunk) 

_(w/e)_

_(I got hella hw, sorry)_

(can’t u come l8er) 

_( -.- )_

_(HELLA hw)_

(awwwwwww) 

(wait what can u possibly have that’s gonna take that long) 

_(Um… that paper for Washington?)_

(What ur not done with that? Dude I finished that on Tuesday) 

_(…He assigned it on Monday…)_

(That he did) 

_(gdi hamilton)_

_(leave me alone)_

( :( ) 

(ok good luck) 

  


Today 12:31 AM 

(So I’ve been thinking) 

_(Uh oh)_

(I want a dog) 

_(It is literally oh dark thirty Alexander)_

(Dogs are floofy) 

_(Man, Alexander Hamilton using the word “floofy” is a sight for the ages)_

(They are also nice and loyal and soft and stuff) 

_(uh huh)_

(My point is, canines are some quality mammals) 

  


Today 1:14 AM 

(u r kind of like a dog actually) 

(I mean you are nice and loyal and have floofy hair) 

_(Floofy)_

(maybe I don’t need a dog) 

(cause I’ve got you) 

_(Right…)_

_(Also you live in a dorm.)_

(I COULD SNEAK IT IN) 

_(lol you can’t even keep your mouth shut, how will you possibly keep a dog quiet?)_

(I’ll figure it out) 

(I’m a smart man) 

_(Debatable.)_

(Pshaw) 

  


Today 1:43 AM 

(Am I the only person in the world who texts the word pshaw) 

_(Probably)_

_(You and Burr anyway)_

(wow) 

(WOW) 

(RUDE) 

(fuck you) 

  


Today 1:47 AM 

(Yo Lafayette says to tell you to just go to sleep if you’re going to be a nerd and not hang with us) 

(ok actually he said that two hours ago I just forgot to tell u at the time) 

(also his exact words were “get your beauty rest”) 

(Get your beauty rest John) 

_(Have you reached your lucid drunk phase? Your spelling’s improved.)_

(Why are you still up) 

(And my lucid drunk phase is always) 

_(putain devoir de francais)_

(Of course) 

_(Tell Lafayette he could come home and do it for me that would be dope)_

(1. He’s shitfaced do u really want a drunk person writing ur hw) 

(1.A. a drunk person who is not me cause lbr I could still KILL that merde) 

_(So modest)_

(1.A.i. One of my finer qualities yes) 

(1.A.ii. The expansive dimensions of my brain exceeding in percentile only those of a certain other part of my anatomy) 

_(omg stop)_

(1.A.ii.a. I was referring to my nose John goodness gracious get your mind out of the gutter) 

_(I hate you)_

( <3) 

(2. He’s laughing his ass off at the very concept) 

_(we’re talking about Lafayette now right)_

(3. Does not seem likely) 

_(Yeah, my hopes weren’t high)_

(Aw man hang on 3 was a conclusion not a point why did I number it) 

_(idk, I was actively ignoring the fact that you were numbering your text messages, let alone putting in fucking subpoints)_

(gdi) 

_(bc if I don’t ignore that it might just turn out to be the point on the sliding scale of pretentiousness at which we could no longer be friends)_

(well we can’t have that) 

  


Today 2:00 AM 

(So I’m home now) 

(Herc passed out and Lafayette left to go smoke with the goddamn fuckin Virginians) 

(John pay attention to me) 

_(non)_

(ok fuck you) 

_( :( )_

(aw bby u kno ily) 

_(why are you like this)_

(im DRUNNNNNNNK) 

_(uh huh)_

  


Today 2:06 AM 

_(going the fuck to sleep now, recommend you do the same)_

(yeah sure whatever) 

(get ur beauty rest) 

  


Today 2:22 AM 

(You know) 

(I know I say fuck you a lot) 

(But I hope you know I always mean it in a loving way) 

(Even when I mean it in a fuck you way it’s still a loving way also) 

  


Today 2:31 AM 

(And tbh sometimes when I say fuck you I mean it like, wow, fuck you, rude) 

(But other times it’s like) 

(FUCK you) 

(Like, you could fuck me) 

(You could fuck me any time you want) 

(Right now tbh) 

(I’d be down) 

  


_Seen 8:04 AM._

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> turns out I can't balance two obsessions in tandem / welcome to the present, I'm in a new fandom
> 
> (That's not to say I won't go back. But my X-Men fic has been sitting dormant for months now, and at the moment all my inspiration is here. So let's see if I can actually finish this, since for me even one-shots can easily morph into >20k multichapter monsters...) 
> 
> still can't believe I'm actually writing this bye


	2. why did my lover have to pick last night to get down?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Local Teen Gets Drunk, Ruins Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why is this my life now
> 
> (the chapter title is a line from the song Manic Monday that was just too perfect)

  


The first thing Alexander registered was the soft chime of his phone alarm drilling through his skull. Moving made his head hurt more, so it was all he could do to stab at the screen with his fingers until at last, blessedly, he managed to hit snooze. 

Ten minutes later, there it went again. This time he unlocked the damn thing to turn the alarm off entirely before he forced himself to sit up—slowly, so as to be aware of any potential for vomit before it came. There was none. That was a blessing. On a broader scale, that he was somehow in his bed, having apparently won a fight with the covers (they had all fallen to the floor), rather than in, say, a ditch somewhere—that was a goddamned miracle. 

A cursory examination of the rest of his surroundings showed Hercules had also made it back, and was now a solid fifteen minutes late for his 8-AM. That, Alexander decided, was his problem; like hell was he waking a hungover Hercules Mulligan in the absence of anything short of a literal fire. Or something. To be honest he wasn’t sure even a fire would do it; he could _probably_ put it out before the situation became dire. Now, if he could just find a way to douse the flames that seemed to be licking at the interior of his head. 

His phone, abandoned on his pillow, buzzed. Alexander shaded his eyes against the dim streams of sunlight making it through the blinds and picked it up. His headache spiked at the brightness, but he could adjust. 

_Jeffmas Tommerson: 95 messages, Hamilton? What the fuck._

Alexander snickered—both the sound and the vibration sent tiny bursts of agony through his brain—and slid open the notification in time to see the next message pop up. 

_(Next time you decide to get wasted on a school night, please, PLEASE spare me the continuous updates.)_

(Aw bby u kno you’d miss my witty commentary) 

_(Swear to god I’m going to block your number)_

Then, because that apparently didn’t convey disgust enough, 

_(You egotistical prick)_

(Thomas pls) 

Seemed this morning was off to a great start; Alexander’s head felt better already. He swiped back into the inbox out of habit. GILBERT had texted at 3:14 to let him know he’d gotten home all right. Below that, it seemed that at 2:36 either he or Aaron Burr had sent a message that just said (FIGHT ME); an educated guess suggested that had been him, but he checked anyway, just to make sure, because on the off chance it _was_ Burr, well, how could he pass up _that_ invitation? 

No such luck. 

Hercules was asleep, and again, probably not a good idea to wake him up, so Alexander made sure to be very quiet as he fumbled around until he found a relatively clean sweatshirt, slung his backpack over his shoulder— _ow_ —and shoved his feet into his shoes, tripping a little in his efforts to pull them on between his bed and the door. He pulled it closed behind him carefully, quietly so as not to disturb Hercules, and of course in his concentration on that aspect it was only when the lock clicked that he realized he had left his keys inside. 

That was okay. Today was a good day. 

In the dining hall he grabbed the largest cup of coffee he could to wash down his ibuprofen, and decided the best possible use of his time would be to read over those 95 messages and see just what it was drunk!Alex had thought was so important he just _had_ to tell Jefferson about it. He scrolled to the top of the Sunday chain. 

(So I hear you’ve extended our dear Gilbert a certain invitation) 

(An invitation to get hella crossed, to put it BLUNTly) 

_(Really)_

_(This again)_

_(Really)_

(Kinda rude that you didn’t invite me and Hercules too) 

(What, you tryna WEED out the company you don’t like?) 

_(So sue me)_

(OKAY) 

_(You’re not a lawyer yet, asshole)_

(JUST YOU WAIT) 

Hours later: 

(OK u win he’s on his way over) 

(Hope u have fun getting high w ur special select group of desPOTs) 

_(Wow)_

(ikr) 

(I’m proud of that one) 

(If I were German I’d be bowing all DANKe, DANKe) 

_(Stop)_

(idk why you don’t invite Adams too) 

(I mean he’s not Virginian but he is a boSTONER) 

_(P sure it’s Bostonian but nice try)_

(My point was, he’d fit right in with your friends, he’s an elitist dick too) 

Thomas hadn’t responded to anything after that, but of course, Alexander had just kept going. He read down the chain more to make sure last night had been dick-pic-free than anything else (it had happened before. He wasn’t proud), though some of these lines were seriously _quality_ ; he should print them out and frame them. Maybe give some to his friends for Christmas. By the time he was back to this morning’s brief interchange the edge had been taken off his hangover, and it was time to head to French. 

“Oh man,” said Lafayette, face spreading into a wide grin the instant he caught sight of Alexander. “Must be a Monday; you look like _hell_.” Alexander could have said the same to him, honestly—he was reasonably certain Lafayette had been wearing those exact clothes last night, and this morning he hadn’t bothered with the usual ponytail, leaving his hair wild around his head. From this angle it made him look unnervingly like Thomas. Still, other than the lack of personal grooming he seemed pretty much bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, which was miles better than Alexander was doing. 

“Va te faire foutre,” Alexander replied, just in time to get smacked in the back of the head and harshly reprimanded in French by Professeur Rochambeau as Lafayette guffawed. That brought the headache back right quick. Alexander did not double over with the combined pain of the assault and the hangover, and he was proud of that, but he did fall into the seat this side of Lafayette with a groan and had to sit there and hold his head for a moment. 

“Bonjour à tous,” said Rochambeau. “Let us begin. Today, I would like you all to separate into pairs and discuss your weekends. Then we will go around and each of you will tell the class what your partner did this weekend.” 

“Okay,” said Lafayette as the class begrudgingly began to move. “Who gets me?” 

“Sure,” said John from the other side of the Frenchman, but Alexander spoke over him. 

“I want John.” Lafayette offered his best impression of deeply hurt and offended. “What?” said Alexander. “I know what you did this weekend, I was there for literally all of it—okay, not literally, but mostly—and John’s your roommate. But him I didn’t see at all.” 

“Okay, okay.” Lafayette shoved himself back, holding up his hands in defeat. “He’s all yours.” He turned his desk to face Adrienne and quietly began the assigned conversation. Alexander turned to look at John expectantly; John said nothing, just looked at him with raised eyebrows. 

“Okay,” said Alexander, “Um… Comment s'est passé ton week-end?" 

“Très bien,” said John, weirdly uncertain. “Et toi?” 

“Il faut que tu me donnes plus.” He had to give him more than that; Alexander couldn’t just tell the class _it was good_. John just looked confused. 

“Je ne sais pas…” He shrugged. “Gigantic paper. Whatever.” 

“Oh yeah!” said Alexander. “How’d that go?” John shrugged again. “…Okay. En fait, je ne m'en souviens pas beaucoup, mais mon week-end allait très bien aussi. J'étais très ivre et alors j'ai encore mal à la tête.” He grinned over-broadly and offered a thumbs-up. John smiled thinly. “Dude,” said Alexander. “What’s up? Is something wrong?” John looked away, shaking his head. 

“Nothing,” he said. “Je suis fatigué, c'est tout. I was up til after two.” 

“Yo, same. Judging from my text records.” Alexander offered a fist. John didn’t move. “…Okay. Anything we haven’t covered?” John shrugged. 

“I don’t know, Alexander,” he said almost sarcastically, “is there?” 

“Guess not.” Alexander sat back, now thoroughly confused himself and more than a little concerned. 

When Rochambeau came to them, they each made up something more detailed to describe the other’s weekend. “Alexander,” John told them in a monotone that Alexander decided was meant to be droll, “a passé le week-end en tant que modèle pour les enfants de tous àges.” The whole class snickered. Rochambeau just sighed. 

The instant class ended, John was up and out the door like a shot before Alexander could get out anything more than his name. 

“What’s with him?” he said to Lafayette instead. Lafayette shrugged. 

“I couldn’t say, mon ami. He’s been freaking out all morning.” 

“Freaking out?” Alexander frowned. “What about?” 

“I couldn’t say. He tells me nothing. I just know the signs.” Lafayette clapped him on the shoulder. “You’d probably have more luck; he tells you _everything.”_

“Not today, apparently,” Alexander grumbled, but as they left he pulled his phone from his pocket, fully intending to just send off a _yo, bro, you sure you’re doing okay?_

Then he actually opened the message thread; what he saw there dropped the bottom from his stomach and stopped him in his tracks. 

“Oh, _fuck,”_ he said, loudly enough that people walking nearby paused to regard him with momentary confusion. 

“What is it?” Lafayette asked, pausing as well. Alexander breathed in deep, closed his eyes, and counted to ten in time with the blood pounding through his head, suddenly aching again. The messages flashed before his eyes. 

(Like, you could fuck me) 

(You could fuck me any time you want)

(Right now tbh) 

(I’d be down) 

“I fucked up,” said Alexander. “I fucked up _badly.”_ He sighed, raked a hand through his hair, and looked around, trying to think through what was rapidly transforming from a hangover into a migraine. “Okay. I have to go to English.” And figure out how to fix this. 

“What did you do?” Lafayette asked curiously. Alexander shook his head, already walking away. 

“What do I ever do?” he called over his shoulder. He heard Lafayette snort before he got out of earshot. Alexander just sighed. As it turned out, today was not the good day he had thought it. Today was not even okay. 

But maybe he could make it better. 

  


_John,_

_I suppose no one knows better than you that in my drunkenness I have on several occasions said or sent phrases that I would later come to regret. As you know, even when sober my so-called ‘filters’ are little more than a theoretical concept that even in the abstract are nigh-nonexistent, and it seems to me that, when inebriated, I turn the very idea of self-censorship inside-out, to the point that I believe it only then that I find myself saying things I may not, in fact, intend. It is to my deep regret that, in my carelessness, I have made you, my unfortunate best friend, party to what may be the most egregious instance yet._

“So Macbeth and Banquo were definitely fucking, right?” 

“Good morning to you too,” said Alexander, not looking up from his notebook as Angelica took the seat beside him. 

_Having no memory of the incident on my own part, I cannot speak to what provoked me to send that message at all. I know only that in the harsh light of day it strikes us both, I think, as a severe error in the course of our friendship, which means more to me than any other, and which I hope you realize I would never intentionally harm._

“I mean,” she continued, “they’re generals together. Comrades-in-arms. They’re on the battlefield, almost dying, getting all sweaty and adrenaline-filled…” 

“And, what, the blood-lust turns to regular lust?” 

“Exactly.” Angelica leaned over. “What are you writing?” 

“Nothing,” said Alexander, shutting his notebook quickly. “I doubt they were fucking.” 

“What? Why not?” said Angelica. Alexander shrugged. 

“I feel like eleventh-century Scotland probably lacked reliable lube,” he said, offering her his most innocent expression. “The furthest they probably went was blowjobs.” 

“No, I’m sure they had _something_ ,” said Angelica. 

“Like what?” 

“Like—animal fat, or something. Tallow, right?” 

“That’s disgusting.” 

“Not to people who made condoms out of sheep intestines.” 

“The _fuck?”_

“You didn’t know that?” She looked genuinely surprised. “I figured if there was anywhere your love of sex and your seemingly endless supply of weird trivia would intersect—” 

“Just because I’ve joined many an attractive human being, present company included, in exploring their sexuality—” 

“And you’re a nerd.” 

“That doesn’t mean I know the entire history of the condom!” Somehow, _of course_ , that was the moment Professor Church took his place behind the lectern and the rest of the class quieted, just in time for that last clause to ring out over the lecture hall. 

“Well, Mr. Hamilton,” said Church as the room erupted with laughter, “it’s a rare day you admit to not knowing everything. Any other areas where you find you’re lacking expertise?” 

There was really nothing else to do: Alexander batted his eyelashes and called back, 

“Well, sir, there’s always your phone number!” Church looked thoroughly unamused. Angelica hadn’t given more than a chuckle at the initial round of awkwardness, but now she, too, died laughing beside him. Alexander was inspired. “It’s not for me!” he added quickly. “It’s for Angelica.” 

“Say _what?”_ said Thomas very loudly from somewhere on the other edge of the hall. Alexander only barely registered it, because Angelica punched him in the arm, then, he thought much harder than was deserved. 

“Right,” said Professor Church. “Well, if we could all turn our attention away from Alexander, though I know he does make that difficult—” 

“I hate you!” Angelica hissed as the class came to order, finally. “Why would you do that?” 

“It was funny?” Alexander tried. She was unmoved. “Come on, you’re telling me you don’t think Church is on the hotter end of the scale, as professors go?” 

“He’s like, thirty!” 

“Yeah,” said Alexander, “only like thirty. In the grand scheme, he’s not _that_ much older than us. And he’s not married.” 

“How do you—actually, yeah, no, I guess it _is_ in your interests to know which professors are married and which aren’t,” said Angelica. “History has proven that, if nothing else.” 

“Hey! Just because—you can’t blame me for not knowing! Maria’s a _grad student!_ She’s, like, twenty-three!” 

“Which is creepy as hell.” 

“Agreed. But my point is, there was no way for me to know she was Reynolds’ wife at the time.” And Professor Reynolds hadn't let him forget it since. 

“Which was pretty much my point, too. Including the creepy as hell part.” 

“Come on,” said Alexander, putting on his innocent face again. “Aren’t you into it, just a _little?_ I mean, Shakespeare, it’s passionate stuff. Maybe a Bianca and Lucentio kind of thing…” Angelica rolled her eyes. 

“I’m not talking to you,” she said, which he knew to be a blatant lie, but for the moment was convenient: her stubbornness gave him leave to go back to working on his apology. In a lecture this big the entire grade was based on a few papers, all of which Alexander had written by the third week of class, so literally all he had to do for the rest of the quarter was print them out and hand them in. As far as the actual class was concerned, just physically showing up was enough. Right now, Alexander had much more important work to do. 

_I certainly never intended to cause you discomfort or confusion, as your behavior this morning seems, to me, to indicate I have. Though I assure you that whatever drunken train of thought led me to my unfortunate actions was predicated on nothing more than the influence of the late hour and the alcohol in my blood, nonetheless I must take full responsibility for them. I certainly never meant to say anything remotely resembling the sentiments I mistakenly expressed to you early this morning, but I cannot take back words now committed, even in error, to the digital record. For the harm I have caused with those words, John, I most sincerely apologize._

That could be enough. Maybe. Alexander paused to read over what he had written; it took up both sides of one notebook page, which didn’t _seem_ like it should be sufficient. Experience told him that couldn’t amount to more than 400 words, and to be honest he wasn’t certain there were enough words in the English language to make as full an apology as was required today. 

Yeah, no. There was definitely more to say. 

_I recognize that, intended or no, this is precisely the type of incident that holds within it the potential for the destruction of even the strongest and most treasured friendships. I hope you know how deeply I treasure ours. It is also my hope, I think a reasonable one, that our friendship will at least allow me, in your eyes, the benefit of the doubt. As you did not respond even with indignation, I can only guess at what concerns this may have inspired in you, but I suspect those guesses may be fairly accurate._

_I suppose the destructive potential innate to this comes from the fact that even a passing phrase, when it is one such as this, naturally calls into question every element of a friendship. Everyone now must second-guess themselves, to the detriment of all as something of the friendly intimacy that had previously grown is lost to distrust. You may now think that in the course of our friendship I have had some ulterior motive, and under these circumstances it may well be impossible for me to convince you entirely that I never have, and never shall; but believe me, I will still try._

As an afterthought, he added, _(I doubt anyone who knows me would have any trouble believing that.)_ Here went nothing. 

_My attraction to people of our gender has never been an impediment to our friendship on your end, that I know of, but for myself I have always been rather paranoid of even toeing the line that I have clearly now crossed, for fear of this exact situation arising. The difficulty inherent in friendships where even one party could potentially be attracted to the other is well-documented in our culture, though personally I have always felt that as long as everyone is honest and open with each other there should be no trouble. Of course, that is the root of the problem: perhaps due to the taboo that society in general even now still places on sexuality, in combination with the hierarchy humans have imposed upon our various relationships that holds romantic attachment, unnaturally and unnecessarily, as superior to and more desirable than other types, people in general are simply incapable of being honest about our feelings for one another._

_In the interest of breaking down that toxic norm, John, let me be honest. You are very attractive, in body and in mind, and I hope you know I admire you immensely as a person even outside of the context of our friendship. But I assure you, that admiration is friendship, not lust. My feelings toward you are platonic._

Alexander closed the notebook; somehow, looking up, he found the time had flown by, and Church was now wrapping up the lecture. It certainly hadn’t felt like an hour. 

“So,” said Angelica as they packed up, “when you said ‘present company included’, did you just mean me, or—?” 

“Huh?” said Alexander, thinking back to figure out what she meant. “Oh. Yeah, no, Angelica, didn’t you know? I’ve slept with all two hundred ninety eight other people in this lecture hall. Obviously.” 

“See, I wouldn’t have questioned it,” she said almost seriously, starting up the stairs just ahead of him, “except that I just can’t see a scenario where you would fuck Thomas Jefferson that didn’t involve some fraction of you being very drunk, and that would open up a whole other can of problematic.” 

“Yeah.” Alexander shuddered. “Ew. No.” 

“Figured.” Angelica nodded, apparently satisfied. “So what is it you’ve been so single-mindedly working on this whole time? Is half the administration going to be pissed at you again by the end of the day?” 

“No,” said Alexander. “Sort of the opposite, I hope.” 

“What does that mean?” Angelica asked. He sighed. 

“Oh, nothing. I just—I fucked up. Drunk texted. You know how that always turns out.” 

“I thought it usually turned out hilarious.” 

“From your perspective, probably.” 

“So who did you text dick pics to this time?” she asked. Alexander rolled his eyes. 

“That was _once.”_

“Come on, what did you do?” Angelica nudged him in the ribs. Alexander sighed. 

“I may have accidentally texted John Laurens what essentially amounts to a booty call.” 

“Oh my god.” Angelica almost stopped walking to stare at him. “Wait. Do you like him? I know you guys are friends, but—” 

“Yeah, _best_ friends, so no, of course not! I don’t know why drunk me does what he does, I just—” Alexander shook his head. “I _really_ fucked up.” 

“Sounds like it,” said Angelica. “Why the novel?” 

“I figure if there’s anything to fix a drunk-texted fuckup, it’s got to be sober writing. Hungover writing, to be honest.” 

“Or you could just, you know, talk to him.” Angelica caught the look on his face and snorted. “Had that seriously not occurred to you?” 

“…Eh.” 

“You thought of _handwritten letter_ before _having a conversation like actual adults?”_ She smirked. “Not that I’m surprised, but _come on.”_

“I still think this is better,” said Alexander, unable to quite keep the stubborn petulance out of his tone. “This way I have a little more time to get my thoughts in order, you know? Less chance my foot will end up back in my mouth.” 

“Just don’t go too far and overthink it,” Angelica told him. “That won’t make things better either.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Alexander waved as they reached the point on the campus paths where they would have to go their separate ways. “See you later.” 

“I didn’t even get to start on the fact that you decided to get wasted on a Sunday night!” Angelica called as she walked away. “We’ll be discussing that in detail at a later date!” 

“I look forward to it!” Alexander called back, for himself turning towards the library (it wasn’t as if he could go home without his keys) to finish writing his way out of this mess. 

When it came time to go to Washington's class, he sat on the opposite side of the room from his usual seat beside John, soundly ignoring Thomas' protests to the temporary adjustment in the status quo, and once his paper was turned in (all that mattered for today) he wrote all through the lecture. He was sure it would earn him no goodwill from the professor, but considering the professor was his advisor, who adored him, he figured he had a little slack he could cut to suit his needs. In all it took three hours and eight sheets of paper, double-sided, before Alexander could think of nothing else to say that wouldn’t be redundant (though if he could word it more pointedly, connect it back to a point he had since made—no. Sixteen pages, the only corner of his brain that was even slightly self-aware well knew, was already unreasonable by a regular person’s standards). 

_John, please believe me: what I did this morning was entirely accidental. I have no intention of pursuing anything but the friendship we have already built, nor any desire to. You’re my best friend; I don’t want that to change. I hope you can forgive me, that it may not._

_I realize that the way I usually sign these things would perhaps be, in this particular instance, rather to the detriment of my case, so let me say only that I am, always,_

_Your friend,_

_Alexander._

Now that at last it felt complete, at least for a given definition of “complete”, Alexander fumbled in the utter disaster of notebooks and papers that was his bag until at last he managed to extract a relatively un-crumpled empty envelope. The papers kind of fit, with some effort. He couldn’t have mailed it without several more stamps, which he didn’t have, but that was okay. He didn’t have to. The old guy who ran the mail center would do it for him. 

“No,” said Ben Franklin before Alexander even reached the mail center window. 

“Oh, come on!” 

“I’m not putting any more flyers in any more boxes unless you can show me you have permission this time.” Franklin actually wagged a finger at him. “Fool me once.” 

“It’s not flyers,” Alexander retorted. Franklin raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “I promise! It’s just one thing. One box. Please?” Franklin sighed. 

“You know you should really just bite the bullet and buy some stamps,” he said. 

“Please,” said Alexander. “That shit’s expensive. And unnecessary, when I have helpful friends like you!” He offered a hopeful grin. 

“Friends?” Franklin repeated doubtfully. 

“Friends of friends?” Alexander tried. “Friends of _advisor.”_

“Fair enough.” Franklin sighed. “Hand it over.” 

“Thank you!” Alexander beamed. “Box 827, if you would, very kindly, please, sir.” 

“Yes, yes,” Franklin grumbled. “Now get out.” 

“Sure.” Alexander walked off, pulling out his phone. He winced at the messages, made even worse by the read receipt, once more before he typed out: 

(You should probably check your mail.) 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Local fic writer continues to not provide adequate translations in-text when using other languages that are not English, feels guilty enough to add them (mostly) here:
> 
> Va te faire foutre: oh come on you know what va te faire foutre means I don't even speak French and _I_ know what va te faire foutre means  
>  Comment s'est passé ton week-end: how was your weekend  
> (I'm not giving you translations for très bien, et toi, or je ne sais pas, those are all common phrases)  
> En fait, je ne m'en souviens pas beaucoup, mais mon week-end allait très bien aussi: In truth I don't remember much, but my weekend was very good too.  
> J'étais très ivre et alors j'ai encore mal à la tête: I was very drunk and my head still hurts.  
> Je suis fatigué, c'est tout: I'm just tired.  
> Alexander a passé le week-end en tant que modèle pour les enfants de tous àges: Alexander spent his weekend being an excellent role model for children of all ages.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't speak French like at all, I just tried to piece it together from English and Spanish via google translate. So if I messed anything up, feel free to let me know so I can fix it.  
> EDIT: Thank you to the people who have helped! Especially tumblr user @bastardorphan.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at @justkatherinetheokay (or @tobyzieglerintraining, for the bulk of the actual Hamilton-related content!)


	3. the closest friend I've got

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander Hamilton exhibits his all-important character trait of Never Being As Good At Fixing Things As He Expects To Be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gradually coming to realize that when I get to the afterlife (you know, the one I don't even particularly believe in to begin with), I will have to avoid the Founding Fathers' table at all costs just so I don't die a second time of sheer embarrassment. 
> 
> But really what am I even doing I cannot believe

  


Alexander seriously considered skipping French for all of a millisecond. Like _hell_ he was cutting class over this. That would be a coward’s move, and a coward he was not. John was his best friend, predisposed to be on his side; there was no reason to be afraid of facing him. So he could convince himself, at least, if a little tenuously. 

When he got there, Lafayette was sitting on the other side of John, leaving several empty spaces between John and the door. Alexander couldn’t decide whether that was a good sign or a bad sign or, probably, not a sign at all. Where Lafayette sat tended to be up more to his own caprices than to any input from John or Alexander or anyone, including whichever one of them he might end up sitting _on_. 

Alexander dared to take the seat nearest John and say, less than certainly, “Hi.” For almost a full minute he was met with nothing but silence. He was just about to either get up and slink away, pretend not to have said anything, or maybe just curl up and die right there, when, thank god: 

“You know,” said John, not looking at him, “if it had come from anyone but you, sixteen handwritten pages of apologies would be suggestive of anything _but_ strictly platonic friendship.” Alexander winced. 

“Yeah, I realized about an hour too late that was kind of Mr. Darcy of me. Sorry.” John shrugged. 

“It’s fine.” 

“No, it’s not,” said Alexander. 

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I did manage to get through it all, _eventually._ ” 

“I didn’t mean _that._ The—you know. The original thing.” Alexander sighed. “I never should have said that, I don’t know why I did, it was a terrible mistake and I hope I didn’t make you too uncomfortable—” 

“I know, dude, I _read_ your _essay._ Your abuse of commas is kind of amazing.” 

“Francais, jeunes,” said Professeur Rochambeau, pausing by their desks to offer a pointed look. 

“Pardon,” John replied evenly. Alexander managed a smile that probably came off more like a grimace. Rochambeau shook his head and moved on. 

“Seriously,” said Alexander as soon as he was gone, “I am so, so sorry. John. I cannot impress upon you enough—” 

“Oh, stop it,” said John, shaking his head, smiling at him now. Almost to his own surprise, Alexander did stop it. “You were drunk, Alex. It’s—whatever. It’s cool.” 

“…Okay.” 

“Now, can we please talk about literally anything else? In French, afin que Rochambeau ne hurle pas à nous?” 

“Oui.” Alexander sat up straighter in his chair and gave himself a little shake to clear his head. He should have felt relieved, he knew, but somehow he didn’t. 

The inexplicable dissatisfaction only grew as the day progressed. In Washington’s class they broke into groups of four to discuss ideas for next week’s partner presentations on the Constitution and its history; “We could do the ERA,” Alexander had suggested last week, but when he had mentioned that to Angelica she had told him, with all due respect, to stay in his lane, so now he offered the Fourteenth instead. 

“Sure,” said John. “Plus the Thirteenth as background?” 

“Of course.” 

“Can I complain about the shit SC pulled with the Black Codes and the preemptive interpretation thing?” 

“Do you want to just do the Thirteenth by itself?” Alexander asked. “Look at how all the different Southern states dealt with it?” John’s whole face lit up, and after a second Alexander had to look away, his eyes shone so bright. 

“Yes. _Please.”_

“Cool.” 

“Great,” said Thomas. “Y’all have fun with that. I kind of want to take the Second, if anyone’s up for it.” _The fuck?_ Alexander mouthed at John, who made a face. 

“Hope you can find someone,” he said out loud. “God knows I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole.” Thomas rolled his eyes. 

“Whatever.” He turned to poke Aaron Burr in the shoulder. “How about you?” 

“Yeah, Burr, what’re you going to do?” John put in. 

“I’m not sure yet,” said Aaron stiffly, eyes darting around at the three of them. 

“Well, you gotta decide sometime,” Alexander pointed out. 

“Do you have a partner?” Aaron asked Thomas. _As if Burr would actually take a stand on the Second Amendment,_ Alexander thought, not because he thought Aaron didn’t have an opinion on guns buried somewhere deep, but because there was no way in hell he was going to express it. 

“Probably gonna work with J-Madz,” said Thomas, pointing a finger gun James Madison’s way when James glanced around at the sound of a nickname Alexander was reasonably certain he privately hated but tolerated only because he was also privately madly in love with Thomas. Or, more likely, just appreciated having him as a best friend, but Alexander felt that his own theory was much more fun. “Sorry.” 

“Ah, well.” 

“Do you have any other ideas?” John asked. Aaron muttered something that sounded mostly sarcastic. “…Sorry,” said John, “didn’t catch that.” 

“Right to privacy,” Burr repeated, louder and, indeed, bitterly sardonic. 

“You know that’s not actually _in_ the Bill of Rights,” Thomas drawled. “Right?” 

“Whoa,” said Alexander, “don’t tell me you’re actually about enumeration—” 

“Eh.” Thomas shrugged. “I mean, if it’s not actually _there…”_

“The better to oppress you with, my dear,” John muttered, and when Alexander glanced at him, laughing, he shot him a wicked, blinding grin. 

“Just because it’s not there doesn’t mean it’s not a right that needs to be protected!” he shot back once he had recovered, or something. “In a perfect world we shouldn’t have to have a Bill of Rights at all, since in a perfect world people would be non-shitty enough to just respect each other as a matter of, you know, being a _person,_ but history has proven time and time again—” 

“Yo, can we _not_ have to listen to a Hamilton rant right now?” Jefferson cut in. Alexander actually dropped his pen so he could give him the finger, but before he could move Professor Washington stepped into the space between John’s and Burr’s desks. That was probably for the best. 

“Got some good ideas over here, boys?” he asked rhetorically, then, pointedly, “And everyone’s keeping it civil?” 

“For a given definition of ‘civil’,” said Burr dryly. Washington sighed. 

“Uh-huh. Let’s just try to keep the violence to the discourse? I don’t want to have to clean up anyone’s blood today.” 

“Today?” John mouthed as Washington walked away. “Has he had to clean up blood before?” 

“Says the guy who got _into_ that fight in the first place,” Aaron muttered. 

“What, with Lee? That wasn’t til after class, though.” 

“Barely,” said Aaron, who, as Alexander recalled, had stepped in to break it up well before anyone else involved had been interested in calling it off. Admittedly, by that point Charles Lee was already going to walk away with a broken nose, but personally Alexander would have liked to see John break his rib too. At least one. 

Not because he wanted Lee, like, dead or anything—it wasn’t like he was a psychopath. It was just that John with his hair coming out of his ponytail after it got pulled too hard, bleeding from a graze at the corner of his mouth, eyes furious, was weirdly, but _very,_ hot. 

Which—he jerked out of the memory with a physical twitch, guilty—was not an opinion he should really be acknowledging even to himself, especially now that he had made quite sure what John knew was the opposite. It was what they both needed to believe, so black-and-white that friendship would remain. He had acknowledged himself, in writing the letter, that there wasn’t much room for gray areas in mixed-sexuality friendships. Trust and that. So Alexander shouldn’t be lusting after his straight best friend. Not even occasionally, when the light hit his face just right to refract off his cheekbones and make his hair glow like a halo. Especially not then, which, with the way they were sitting, was right now. It just wasn’t healthy. 

Also, if John were aware, he would probably be a lot less casual about getting shirtless in front of Alexander when the need arose. So there was also that. Mostly Alexander felt bad about that, selfish, like a dick, but on the other hand it was really hard to feel _that_ bad about appreciating things like John Laurens not wearing a shirt. 

“Alex.” John snapped his fingers in front of Alexander’s nose. “What up, man? You awake in there?” 

“Huh?” 

“‘Shall not be infringed,’” said Thomas. “How can you argue with that?” 

“‘Well-regulated militia,’” Alexander replied automatically, John muttering the same about a half-second behind him. 

“So private citizens shouldn’t have guns at all?” 

“With a shit-ton of permits, background checks, and training, sure, why not?” 

“How is that not still infringement?” 

“That part’s conditional on the well-regulated militia in the first place,” said Alexander. “Look at the way the sentence is phrased.” 

“The sentence abuses commas almost as much as you do,” John put in, then, “what?” when Alexander glared at him. “I’m just saying. I _agree_ with you, remember? A neo-nazi shooting up black churches isn’t gonna be part of any militia I want to see legitimized.” The group went silent for a moment; even Thomas, Alexander thought, couldn’t really argue with that when the kid actually from South Carolina said it. 

“What do you think, Burr?” Thomas asked instead, in a pathetically transparent move to deflect. “Where do you stand on the good old right to bear arms?” 

“Depends,” said Aaron dryly. “If I shoot you all, can this conversation be over?” Luckily, the answer to that would have to wait for another day, since the conversation was brought to an end by Washington and the fortuitous end of the class hour. 

“Hey,” said John, catching Alexander by the elbow before he could get too far ahead on the way out of the humanities building. 

“Huh?” 

“You doing okay?” 

“What?” 

“You were just kinda zoned out for a while there.” He did look genuinely worried, so Alexander paused and paid attention instead of just watching his lips move. “Are you doing that thing where you don’t sleep again?” He looked so _concerned_. It was distractingly sweet. 

“Oh.” Alexander blinked. “Nah, I’m sleeping okay, mostly.” 

“Okay.” 

“I’ll sleep sounder knowing we’re cool again,” said Alexander, trying to make a joke out of it, which didn’t seem to work quite as well as he had hoped—John smiled, but weakly, as he dropped Alexander’s arm and kind of winced. Uh-oh. “We are cool again, right?” 

“Yeah, of course. I told you, we’re fine.” John’s smile grew more confident. “Just don’t dwell on it, or whatever. That’s only going to keep the awkward going.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Alexander agreed quickly. “Better to just forget?” 

“Exactly.” John nodded, now looking nothing short of relieved. “We’re good, it’s all good, now let’s move the fuck on.” He offered a fist. “Right?” Alexander bumped it. 

“It’s all good,” he repeated, and hoped it sounded less hollow outside his head. 

“Hey, I’ve got to run,” said John, glancing at his phone. “I’ll see you later, man.” 

“Sure.” Alexander watched him go (hated that part, but loved to watch him leave). The weird disappointment was back, and how—he definitely shouldn’t have felt as crushed as he suddenly did. 

It was possible, as was dawning on him, that he had fucked up more than he had thought. And differently than he had thought. But everything he had written had been true—except it wasn’t. It had been written quickly, half-panicking, and just now had felt a lot less true with John actually standing in front of him, all concerned and adorable. John, who was relieved by it. 

Well, _some_ of it was true, at least—Alexander did distinctly recall having written something about never having meant to say what he had. That was true. He never _meant_ to. Because the truth would harm the friendship. Which was bad. 

But apparently saying what he needed to say to keep it intact felt worse. Maybe that was because he wasn’t used to anything but wearing his heart on his sleeve, which, here, he absolutely could not do. It felt wrong to lie, went against the grain of his very being, but it was for the best. Probably. 

“Sorry, man.” Some kid bumped into him, jerking him back to reality, and Alexander realized he had been standing there lost in thought for several minutes at least. Okay. Time to figure out what to do. 

But what more could he do? 

  


AngHELLAca 

  


Today 2:52 PM 

(Are you busy) 

_(Do u not have my class sched memorized)_

(Common courtesy to ask) 

_(What’s up)_

(Are you down to participate in the discourse) 

_(Um)_

(By participate in the discourse I mean acquire the hot gossip) 

_(Well when you put it that way)_

_(What’s happening?)_

(I fucked up) 

(At life) 

_(How is that new)_

(I just need to talk it out idk) 

_(Where do you want to meet)_

_(Want me to bring you coffee?)_

(omg yes I love you marry me) 

_(Slow your roll loverboy)_

(kissy face emoji) 

_(You know it really loses something when you type out ‘kissy face emoji’ instead of sending the actual kissy face emoji)_

(Nah see that je ne sais quoi is 100% what I was going for) 

_(Douche)_

_(Venti mocha?)_

(ok sign emoji) 

_(Stop)_

  


“What’s going on?” Angelica asked, taking the seat across from him at one of the less-choice library tables on the group work floor. Alexander sighed and took the steaming venti cup she slid across the table to him. He took a long gulp. 

“Okay, you know how this weekend I got drunk and texted some shit I shouldn’t have?” 

“Yeah, what was that again?” She frowned. “Didn’t you, like, booty-call John Laurens? Oh yeah, and then you wrote that thing. How’d that go over?” 

“Fine,” said Alexander. “I mean. It did what it was supposed to.” 

“So what’s the matter?” 

“It did what it was supposed to, but that intention was in error, and I realized it too late.” 

“The intention was in error? The fuck does _that_ mean, Shakespeare?” 

“Well,” said Alexander. “In the letter, see, I made a big deal about how platonic my feelings are, right? But then I realized that actually, that’s not the case. Because, um, _platonic_ implies that—” 

“So you do like him?” Angelica cut in, which was probably for the best. 

“Maybe?” 

“Maybe.” 

“Well, um—” Alexander could feel himself blushing, which wasn’t something his face normally did. That was much more a John thing. And on John, it was adorable. Crap. “I mean, I’ve always thought he was cute? But I can think he’s cute without wanting, like—you know, and he’s my friend, so it’s not like I ever—but on the other hand, yeah, I so would. So I think I do like him. A lot.” 

“Okay,” said Angelica after a few seconds. “Um—setting aside that trainwreck of a sentence, I’m sorry, but how the _hell_ could you possibly have not realized that until now?” 

“What?” 

“You flirt with him all the time!” 

“I flirt with everyone all the time!” 

“Fair enough.” Angelica shrugged. “So you like him.” 

“Maybe.” 

“Definitely.” 

_“Maybe.”_

“Right. So what’s the problem?” 

“Well, for one thing, I’ve just told him very eloquently that I _don’t,_ and for another, that’s as he wants it. He doesn’t feel the same way.” 

“…Right.” 

“What?” 

“Because he definitely doesn’t go all _heart eyes, motherfucker_ the instant you walk into a room.” 

“Yeah, but everyone does that,” said Alexander. “It’s just an effect I have on people in general.” Angelica whacked him in the head with a notebook—only one-subject, but it still stung. “Hey!” 

“You’re such a _douche.”_ But she smiled fondly at him. Alexander sighed. 

“He can’t like me,” he said quietly, “because I don’t think he even likes guys. I know he had a girlfriend in high school—” 

“And how many women have you slept with, mister bisexual-with-an-exclamation-point?” 

“—and on Facebook it says _interested in women_ —” 

“So you’re now at the point of actually Facebook stalking your best friend instead of just _talking to him—?”_

“I’d looked before.” 

“Oh, so really it’s just your compulsive need to know everything.” 

“Interested in women, Angelica.” 

“He’s from South Carolina, Alexander,” Angelica reminded him, which was a point. “How do you think his family feels about those godless homosexuals?” 

“Yeah,” said Alexander, “but—like—I feel like if you’re queer, when you’re _not_ around your family of homophobic assholes, and your friend goes home with a guy who turns out to be your roommate and then has to casually be like, oh yeah, _bi_ the way, it’s okay to say, like, yo, cool, man, me too—” 

“Is that how you came out to him?” Angelica shook her head. “You kicked him out of his room to fuck Lafayette?” 

“I did not kick him out of his room to fuck Lafayette,” said Alexander with the utmost dignity. _“Lafayette_ kicked him out of _their_ room to fuck _me_. I was just, you know, there.” 

“Uh-huh.” Angelica frowned. “I’m just saying, but if I were John, I would not want to come out to you under those circumstances. Especially if I liked you. That would just _hurt.”_ The bottom dropped out of Alexander’s stomach at that thought—she was absolutely right—but he ignored it. 

“Well, that’s—fair, but completely unhelpful,” he groused. 

“Wait,” Angelica added—“hang on, how many of your friends _haven’t_ you slept with?” 

“…John,” said Alexander, and thumped his head against the table. “God damn it.” 

“Yet,” said Angelica. 

“I’m telling you, it’s not going to happen.” 

“And I’m telling you I think you’re wrong.” Before Alexander could respond to that, he was distracted by a tap on his shoulder. 

“Alexander,” said Lafayette, who had appeared, it seemed, out of nowhere. “May I speak with you?” 

“Uh—yeah? Sure.” Alexander looked at Angelica, who waved him off. “Sorry.” 

“I have to go anyway,” she demurred, standing. “I’ll see you later.” 

“Sure.” Alexander turned to Lafayette as Angelica walked away. “What’s up?” 

“I don’t want to pry,” said Lafayette quietly, gently, “or interject myself where I am unwanted, but I wanted to make sure all was well on your end, between you and John.” Alexander blinked. 

“Huh?” 

“I know only that you did something to upset him,” Lafayette continued, “and then something else to fix it, but I am not convinced it is entirely fixed.” 

“What?” said Alexander. “Why?” Lafayette shrugged. 

“He does not seem much happier,” he said simply. “Indeed, what you wrote seemed to distress him more than before.” Alexander’s eyebrows flew up. 

“Really,” he said. “He seemed okay when I talked to him.” 

“Well, then, I hope that’s correct.” 

“Me too,” said Alexander warily. “Why do I feel weirdly threatened?” 

“Oh—don’t, don’t, of course not.” Lafayette shook his head quickly, eyes widening. “I just want all of my friends to remain friends, so everyone is happy and no one feels awkward. If things are fixed, I just want them to stay that way.” 

“Of course.” Alexander nodded. 

“Good!” Lafayette smiled. “I’ll see you later.” 

“Right.” Alexander only half-registered the Frenchman leaning down to kiss his cheek before he walked away, because he was lost in thought again, but not productive thought—just the anxious white noise in his brain that came with being more confused than ever. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long oh my god finals u feel me also this chapter just kept getting longer and longer without getting where I wanted it to go?
> 
> Anyway now I'm home for a month so probably I'll have time to write things other than final papers and stuff and when it comes to those things I promise to write like I'm running out of time


	4. it's pretty obvious that you've got a crush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rewind (rewind) (rewind) (rewind wind wind wind)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you hate it when you've had a chapter done for like a month but you had to finish the one before it before you could post it and finishing that chapter took f o r e v e r
> 
> Anyway time for some J dot Lau pov
> 
> (do not listen to Die Young, esp the deconstructed version, and think about historical canon bc you will cry)

  


John tapped his phone screen to make it snooze and rolled over, fully intending to steal another fifteen minutes of sleep. Four minutes later, he remained resolutely awake, because apparently his brain wanted him to be miserable, not that that was new. Sighing, he rolled back and picked up his phone. 

Eleven messages. _Alexander_ , his half-awake brain said automatically, followed by some emotion probably best expressed as _heart-eyes emoji_. John rolled his eyes, both at himself and at the fact that a cursory glance told him he was right; it _would_ be Alexander, if not in all then at least in the vast majority. Nonetheless unable to quite keep from smiling, he opened the most recent one. _I’d be down._ Down for what? 

Instantly his smile faded as he stared at the screen in confusion, stomach twisting. 

“Mmphughhhh,” said Lafayette, or something that sound best approximated, as he sat up on the other side of the room. “What time is it?” 

“A little after eight,” John replied on autopilot. 

“Meh,” Lafayette sighed decisively after a moment’s tense silence (well, tense for John), and flopped back down on his pillows. John continued to stare at his phone, mind somehow both numb and racing at the same time. 

_Why would he send me that?_

Alcohol smashed inhibitions. Alexander wasn’t exactly withholding sober, but it was possible that there were still things he would only acknowledge when given a little kick by whatever liquid courage he happened to have in his system. Maybe… that… really was how he felt. Maybe he just kept it to himself for fear of fucking up the friendship. 

Or, much more likely, John was just projecting, because hadn’t he spent at least the past year and a half doing just that? Alexander was honest to a fault; if that was the case, John would have known well before now. He would have laid it out to be dealt with quickly and painlessly, hoping to take the rejection gracefully so they could both avoid the awkwardness and move on with their lives. Except he would have been pleasantly surprised, so if that _had_ been the case, they probably would have been together for months now. 

So clearly, John thought rather sourly, sitting up in his own bed, still resolutely single, the case it was not. 

And yet. 

_(You could fuck me any time you want)_

_(Right now tbh)_

_(I’d be down)_

John closed his messages, locked his phone, and set it face-down. That wasn’t enough; he had to bury his face in his pillow, too, and try not to scream into it in a way that would be audible on the outside. 

Alexander hadn’t meant to send it. It had been a mistake, maybe even intended for someone else. Probably. It had to be. At the very least he didn’t mean it. The odds were, he would wake up this morning not remembering a thing. John would find out when he saw him, which was—shit, sooner than he had realized. 

And as it turned out, that much, at least, was correct. “En vérité,” said Alexander, smiling blindingly, “je ne me souviens pas beaucoup…” There it was. 

John looked at him for a moment, wondering if he should say something like, “bien, apparemment je sais plus sur votre fin de semaine que vous,” and point it out, but that, he realized just as quickly, would be pointless; all it could possibly do would be to make the situation unnecessarily awkward. 

But how could it have been sent by accident, when the preceding half-hour’s worth of messages led up to it and provided the perfect context? John wondered that later, when he could bring himself to reread the rest of what he had missed. He wondered, and promptly decided not to think about it. Nothing about this made sense. Trying to piece it together just hurt his head, and also, it seemed, basically his entire torso. 

And it wasn’t like Alexander could offer him any explanations, when he didn’t remember anything about it. 

  


Okay, so apparently he could. 

When, on Tuesday morning, John finally did as the only text he had received since _that_ one bade him and went to check his mail, he found a fucking _letter_. A sixteen-page-long _handwritten_ letter—there were eight sheets of paper, double-sided. John counted. Jesus fuck. People didn’t just write _letters_ to their friends to apologize for accidentally sending them a 2-AM booty call by text-message. 

To be fair, Alexander Hamilton was not most people. Actually, John wasn’t always sure Alexander was _people_ , period. In the first few months he had known him he had developed an embarrassingly complex theory about Alexander that postulated, basically, that he was a superhuman robot sent from the future to drag America into it, word by polysyllabic word. 

It had mostly been a joke; a robot would probably have had more legible handwriting and less need for coffee. And better hair. Not that Alexander’s hair was bad (just too long, and often too unruly, to belong to a robot). No, Alexander’s hair was kind of awesome. Alexander’s everything was kind of awesome. Only a robot, John had reasoned, could be so sheerly, purely _awesome._

Finally admitting to himself that actually John just really wanted to make out with him had made things much easier, except in that it _really_ hadn’t at all. Right now, for example—definitely not easier. 

A _letter._ He looked down at it; only his name was visible above the top fold. After it could be anything: apology; love confession (no it couldn’t, John, be sensible); impassioned rant about what an ass Thomas Jefferson was and how the administration didn’t seem to fucking _care_ that he and Madison were _growing illegal weed_ in the basement of their goddamn _frat house_ and it wasn’t that Alexander didn’t think marijuana _should_ be legal, because, like, _racism_ , not to mention the benefits associated with regulation and taxation, it was that right now, in the imperfect world they lived in, it _wasn’t_. So it was the _principle_ of the thing. (And, mostly, the fact that it was Thomas Jefferson.) 

No time like the present to find out. John steeled himself, inasmuch as he could, and began to read. 

_I suppose no one knows better than you that in my drunkenness I have on several occasions said or sent phrases that I would later come to regret. As you know, even when sober my so-called ‘filters’ are little more than a theoretical concept that even in the abstract are nigh-nonexistent, and it seems to me that, when inebriated, I turn the very idea of self-censorship inside-out, to the point that I believe it only then that I find myself saying things I may not, in fact, intend. It is to my deep regret that, in my carelessness, I have made you, my unfortunate best friend, party to what may be the most egregious instance yet._

Apology it was. John swallowed the lump that rose in his throat. It wasn’t like he had expected it to be anything else, particularly—he wouldn’t dare—but still, maybe some part of him had hoped. 

(Not for the Jefferson rant. If it had been that, he probably would have just crumpled it up and thrown it at the wall.) 

The thing about living in a dorm was that there were very few instances of real privacy. Right now, for example, Lafayette was sprawled across his bed reading, experimental French hip-hop turned up so loud in his headphones that John could hear it pretty clearly from the other side of the room, but even if he wasn’t paying attention he was still _there_. If he looked up he would see, and the absolute last thing John wanted was for anyone to see him break down, which wasn’t the direction he had expected his day (or his week) to go, but here he was, and it seemed like a real possibility. 

Carefully, he climbed down from his bed and stepped out of the room. The first place he could think to go was the bathroom; it was thankfully empty. No one saw him slip into the farthest shower stall. Once there he could sit down and curl up, back to one wall, and read through the rest of the letter. His stomach hurt more with each paragraph. 

Obviously he would be forgiven, because he was Alexander, and John could never not forgive Alexander anything, probably—but god, if he had to answer the question John had spent the better part of two years too afraid to ask, with the exact answer he had been too afraid to hear, did he have to do it so callously? 

Of course he did. It wouldn’t seem callous to him; he was probably panicking, writing as plainly as he was able (which was not very) in his haste to make himself clear. To Alexander it was just the truth, nothing more. And the truth, for Alexander? 

_My feelings toward you are platonic._

Well, that settled it. Anything John had ever imagined existed (and god, had he tried not to, but sometimes it did seem like _maybe_ —) really was his imagination talking, and nothing more. In the closest thing to privacy he was going to find, though, at least he could give up the battle he’d been fighting for thirty-six hours and stop trying quite so hard not to cry. 

“Laurens,” echoed through the bathroom as the door slammed open, Lafayette drawing his name out. “Are you here, mon ami? What’s wrong?” Quick, light footsteps, and the shower door swung open. John didn’t look up, but hid his face in his arms. “Oh, no.” The next thing John knew there was a rather heavy Frenchman sitting half-on-top of him, an arm slung around his shoulders. 

“I’m fine,” he mumbled, but leaned into the touch. Lafayette’s grip tightened just slightly. 

_“Clearly_ you are not.” 

“Yeah, okay.” John laughed weakly and looked up, wiping at his eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” Lafayette asked again. John shook his head. 

“Nothing. Just—stuff.” 

“What did Alexander say to you?” Lafayette asked. John’s head whipped up so fast he feared for his neck. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well,” said Lafayette, “we were worried about you yesterday, you see, and he looked at his phone and said that he had fucked up.” 

“That’s a way to put it.” 

“How would you put it?” 

“…That he fucked up, probably.” 

“So how did he fuck up?” 

"I don't really want to talk about it." John sighed. 

"Okay." When Lafayette said nothing else, John did a double-take. 

"Okay?" 

"Okay." Lafayette squeezed his shoulders again. "As long as he fixes it, I will not, ah, _pry."_

"Thank you," said John, surprised and, truly, touched. Perhaps he was so used to Alexander's incessant need to know absolutely _everything_ (a flaw John shared, no lie) that when someone kept out of others' business it was just strange to him. 

"He has fixed it, yes?" Lafayette nodded toward the papers still clutched in John's hand, a little crumpled now. 

"He's tried." John shook his head. "It's fine. Don't worry about it." 

"All right." Lafayette huffed out a sigh before, carefully, he stood. "Will you come home, mon ami, or will you stay here? Crying in the shower does seem to be an appropriate way to, ah, deal with your feelings, if the movies offer any indication..." It took John longer than it should have to realize his eyes were dancing with the joke. 

"Yeah, okay." John scrambled to stand from the awkward position he had sat in; Lafayette offered him a hand. "Thanks." 

"Bien sur." His roommate's eyes were kind. "I hope things improve between you and Alexander. It would be a shame to lose his friendship." 

"Why would you lose it?" John asked, shutting the shower door behind him. 

"Well," said Lafayette, "It seems to me if the two of you have, say, a falling-out, I may only continue to be friends with one. And I _live_ with you." 

"True." John leaned forward over one of the sinks, examining himself in the mirror to make sure it wasn't too obvious he had been crying. His eyes were a little red and his hair a little messed up, but that was it. He pulled the elastic from his ponytail, fixed his hair, and replaced it. Okay. "Please don't tell him about this, by the way?" 

"Bien sur," said Lafayette again. 

"Or else I'm calling you Gilbert for the rest of our lives." 

"Mon ami!" Lafayette cried, sounding quite offended. "I see no need for such cruel threats!" John laughed—weakly, but still, he laughed, and that seemed to please Lafayette. “Of course,” he said again, softer. “And for… for what it is worth, right, I hope it… works out.” John frowned up at him, confused. 

“That what works out?” 

“I can put two and two together,” said Lafayette pointedly. John felt heat rise to his face. “You, mon cher coloc, deserve to be kissed often, by as good a kisser as Alexander.” Lafayette would know, John had actually forgotten until now; he had successfully blocked that memory, and now that he did remember he didn’t really want to have to think about it at this moment, in this context, or maybe ever. Luckily or—yeah, no, unluckily, the door swung open halfway through the sentence, because of course Aaron Burr had to walk in right now. 

_“Way_ too much information,” he said after a very awkward pause, raising a judgmental eyebrow. John was torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to sink into the floor and have it close up around him. 

He chose laughter. _“You’re_ the one who barged in.” 

“It’s a public bathroom.” 

“You are the _worst_ , Burr,” Lafayette added, devastatingly disdainful. Burr just sort of sneered and walked off into a bathroom stall. John and Lafayette took that cue to leave. “You could tell him,” Lafayette pointed out once they were back in their room. John laughed, a delayed reaction and definitely a little too manic. “What? I am certain he would at least be kind, if not outright reciprocal.” 

“Yeah, no,” said John, “that’s… that’s not happening.” It was still kind of foreign to him that _telling_ each other about their interest was something people actually did, in the world. John had only ever been good at pining from a distance, even (especially) when that distance was at most a college campus, and usually more like three feet. Probably an unfortunate side effect of growing up a gay kid in South Carolina, but old habits were _really_ hard to break. And besides: _My feelings toward you are platonic._ No point bringing it up when he already knew what the answer would be. What it was. 

“Well,” said Lafayette. “Even if not, you will be all right?” 

“Yeah.” John shrugged. “It’s all good.” He glanced down at the letter, still rather crumpled in one hand. “I can deal.” 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I <3 shitty communication hbu
> 
> Oh yeah btw once again if I've fucked up the French in any way shape or form please let me know (why I can't ever seem to get into a fandom where the characters speak my actual second language is beyond me)
> 
> I can still be found on tumblr @justkatherinetheokay or @tobyzieglerintraining and tbh I recommend the latter


	5. raise a glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because it is, in fact, possible, for Alex to fuck up further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE  
> BET YOU THOUGHT YOU'D SEEN THE LAST OF ME
> 
> Anyway I'm not going to let myself start posting any more WIPs until this one is done (and oh boy do I have unposted WIPs), and I already have the ending sitting pretty much ready in the word doc, so I might as well write the middle.

  


AngHELLAca 

  


Today 6:49 AM 

(Did you check twitter) 

  


Today 7:15 AM 

(DID YOU CHECK TWITTER) 

  


Today 7:49 AM 

_(You do know typing in all caps doesn’t make my phone buzz any louder right)_

_(Especially when… the ringer’s off…)_

(DID) 

(U) 

(CHECK) 

_(Alexander D. Hamilton. It is not even 8 AM. Shame on you)_

(TWITTER) 

(wtf my middle name doesn’t start with D) 

(I don’t even HAVE a middle name) 

_(I know)_

_(The d stands for dickhead)_

_(As in, no one but you even uses twitter, dickhead)_

(ANGELICAAAAAAA) 

_(No)_

([image]) 

(JEFFERSON OR BURR) 

(I cannot BELIEVE those are my only options) 

(BUT more importantly) 

(THE PPL ARE ASKING TO HEAR MY VOICE) 

_(I guarantee you they are not)_

(ANGELICA did you not LOOK at the SCREENSHOT) 

_(Ok but see I’m p sure there’s a difference between someone who @s u asking who ur voting for 4 asb prez)_

_(And whatever you think ‘the ppl asking to hear ur voice’ are looking for exactly)_

_(Just don’t write any long-winded op-eds ok)_

(GOOD IDEA) 

_(I SAID DONT)_

  


Thursday flew by in a whirlwind of ASB election buzz. Aaron Burr’s posters were so serious and professional-looking that it took a double-take before John realized some weirdo hadn’t just hung up stock photos; Thomas Jefferson’s, in vivid contrast, were bright purple and covered in glitter. 

The only reason Alexander wasn’t running, John knew, was because _the student body president’s just a figurehead anyway, I don’t even care,_ and definitely not at all because he’d managed to piss off a few too many people on the outside of their campus’ social justice sphere. 

Which he’d accomplished mostly by getting into fights on Yik-Yak and completely ignoring the purpose of the platform by signing his name on every post. 

Also, his all-caps twitter rants. 

And sometimes actual public verbal rants, usually while drunk. Like right now. 

John usually would have been right beside him where he stood holding court at the center of the bar, a small but growing crowd looking in general more amused than genuinely invested in what he was saying. Realistically they were all a little too tipsy right now to care about anything substantial Alexander might have to say—it was pint night, so everyone was on at least their second drink, John included. From the looks of it Alexander was maybe even a bit past that, but that never stopped him from saying pretty much whatever was on his mind. If anything, it encouraged it. 

_That_ was why John was hanging back, really, though if asked he’d probably deny it. Keeping his distance for a little while was probably for the best. 

“Johnnnnn!” Aaaaand apparently that plan wasn’t going to work. At some point when John hadn’t been paying attention, Alexander had extracted himself from his audience to make his way over here. Now he was leaning across the table, hands planted firmly on John’s side of it, grinning in his face. 

“What?” 

“What’re you doing over here all by yourself?” Alexander hoisted himself over the table quite nimbly for someone as tipsy as he seemed, so that he sat with his feet practically in John's lap. “It’s pint night, John! You wouldn’t party with us Sunday, you’re really gonna hold out now?” Sunday. Yeah, John _so_ needed to be reminded of Sunday. He took another sip of his beer before he stood. 

“Okay, fine.” 

“Yaaaaay!” Alexander hopped down from the table and more or less into John’s arms, stumbling over his own feet and wobbling dangerously until John managed to steady him. It was a testament to how relatively un-wasted he was, he thought, that he could do that with just one arm, and without dropping his drink in the process. If Alexander was going grab onto that arm and giggle in his ear, though, the un-wasted status quo definitely needed to change. His best friend always was a clingy, handsy drunk for whom alcohol seemed to obliterate the concept of personal space (his own or anyone else's); usually John would have been privately, guiltily, enjoying it, but after this week he wasn’t really in the mood. “Come onnnn,” Alexander whined, tugging him towards the bar. John downed the last of his beer. 

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s have another round, huh?” 

“Only if you’re buying.” Alexander grinned impishly, very close to his face. John shut his eyes for a moment. 

“Sure.” 

“Yes!” Alexander practically danced them over. Once they reached the bar he finally let go of John’s arm. If the limb tingled, it was definitely just pins and needles—Alexander’s grip had been pretty tight. John shook it a little to make the sensation dissipate before he stepped up to order. Before even half of his third drink was gone Alexander had jumped up again (without stumbling, this time) to insert himself into what had been, until then, a quiet and perfectly discussion of the ASB elections, leaving John sitting alone again, this time at the bar. 

“Johnny!” Out of nowhere a huge, heavy hand thumped him on the shoulder. Once again John managed not to spill his drink. Barely. It was a closer call than last time—he was a lot more buzzed. “What’s up, man? You’re in my seat.” 

“Oh—I'm sorry, man, I didn't—” John moved to stand up, but Hercules pushed him gently back down. 

“Nah, bro, keep it, I don’t mind. Anyone sitting here?” He gestured to the empty seat left by— 

“Alex was, but—” John looked around. “He left. He could be coming back?” It didn’t seem too likely; he’d since moved on from the conversation he had left for, and was now standing closer to the door, leaning against a wall as he talked to a girl John didn’t recognize. It figured. “It’s cool,” he told Herc. “I don’t think he’s gonna care if you take his seat. ’Specially _you.”_ He could hear his own drawl getting particularly pronounced; it happened more when he started to teeter on the edge of drunk. A good sign it was about time he stopped. Once the third of a pint he had left was gone, he decided, that would be it for tonight. 

“Probably not.” Herc grinned, took the seat, and leaned forward to ask the bartender something in an undertone, pointing over his shoulder with a thumb. John couldn’t hear most of what he said over the pleasant buzz in his head, but he thought he caught Alexander’s name. The bartender frowned and said something equally quiet in reply. Whatever it was, Herc’s brow furrowed in worry. 

“What’s that about?” John asked. Herc sighed. 

“Alex asked me to make sure he didn’t get past tipsy tonight,” he said, “said he didn’t want to get drunk enough to do anything he won’t remember in the morning, but from the looks of it he passed that threshold while I was in the bathroom.” 

“Ah.” John didn’t have to wonder why that might be. It was nice to know he wasn’t the only one hoping to keep things from getting awkward again, at least. 

_“That,”_ Lafayette pronounced as he, too, appeared out of nowhere, “is because Alex est un putain—comment le dis?—a silly little thing who cannot hold his liquor.” John snorted. 

“A lightweight, Laf.” 

“Yes! That.” Lafayette jabbed a finger in his direction. “A lightweight.” He looked around, frowning. “Is there not a seat for me, mes amis?” 

“You can have mine.” John polished off the last of his drink and stood. “I should get going anyway, it’s late.” 

“Bah!” Lafayette shook his head disapprovingly, but took the seat anyway almost before John had fully vacated it, bumping him aside with his hip. “We shall regret the lack of your presence, cher coloc.” 

“Yeah, and if you’re lucky I’ll feel a little sympathy for you tomorrow when you’re hungover in French.” 

“I have spent a large portion of my adult life _hungover in French,_ Laurens,” Lafayette pointed out in a very lofty tone—in English, probably for Herc’s benefit, and to great effect, as he just about fell off his stool laughing. “I predict it will be you and Hamilton who require _all_ of our sympathy. Not,” he added more slyly, “that the two of you don’t have it already.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John asked. Lafayette just winked at him. Good, since Herc was there, though he was probably still laughing too hard to pay them much attention anyway. John rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay. See you assholes tomorrow.” 

John lingered just long enough to clear up his tab, and Herc recovered enough to wave goodbye in time with Lafayette’s “Au revoir!” as he walked off, headed for the door. Before he got there, though, he was accosted again. 

“John!” Alexander somehow managed to slip under his arm, and, despite the fact that they were standing, more or less snuggle up against his side. 

“Uh,” said John, freezing in place. 

“What’s upppp?” John hadn’t _seen_ Alexander acquire any more alcohol since he had left the bar, but somehow he seemed to have gotten drunker since then. 

“I was, um,” said John. “Just leaving, actually. I’ll see you tomorrow?” He managed to extract himself from Alexander without injury or _too_ much awkwardness, but Alexander stepped around him surprisingly smoothly to block his path to the door and, taking his hand, steered him in another direction. “Alex…?” Sober, John probably would have pulled away, but here he let himself be pulled towards a quieter corner of the bar instead. 

“Shh—shhhhhhhh.” Alexander pushed him more or less against a wall, so that he was essentially boxed in. He could have stepped to the side, but some weak part of his brain that was screaming softly in excitement at how close his body was to Alexander’s didn’t let him. “Don’t worry. Don’t worry!” 

“Alex,” said John again, but froze in place when Alexander actually reached out and pressed his index finger over John’s lips, practically sending an electric shock through his entire body from the point of contact. _Jesus Christ, Laurens, get a fuckin' grip._ “What are you doing?” he asked. 

“I just want to _talk_ to you,” said Alexander very seriously, leaning into his space, not that he’d really left him any. “John. I really fucked up, okay?” John frowned. 

“What?” 

“On S—Sunday—well—Monday—” Shit. Right. For a while there, John had almost felt drunk enough to forget. 

“I thought we were cool,” he said. Alexander pulled his hand back slightly, but his finger remained poised in the air over John’s mouth. “Weren’t we, I don’t know, not going to talk about it?” They hadn’t _agreed_ to it, exactly, but he’d figured it could go unsaid. 

“No, John, I _fucked up!”_ said Alexander again. “So now I have to fix it. Again. Okay? I just..." He made a face, one John wasn't sure even he would be able to interpret were he totally sober. "Words, I mean, I love words, but words weren't the way to... you know, it's all about tone, and intention, and I didn't really..." He was rambling. That wasn't exactly new, though usually John could follow it a _little_ better. Usually John was sober. Usually _Alexander_ was sober. "But you’re my best friend, and, but, I mean, _John…”_ He sighed. “You’re so _pretty.”_

John’s heart leapt into his throat, constricting anything he might have said at all to stop this. Whatever _this_ was. Whatever was happening. 

“And blurry," Alexander added. "Right now, I mean, you're not—you know, you're not blurry always. I'm just drunk.” He shook his head. "I think I was going to not get drunk tonight? Oops! But that's okay." With that, it was like his eyes slid back into focus, locking onto John's, kind of like burning. 

John swallowed hard. Alexander giggled. 

“But I can see when you swallow!” he remarked, then added, voice dropping about an octave, “Think I _like_ seeing you swallow.” 

_What the fuck is happening right now,_ John thought, mind otherwise blank with what he was pretty sure was a weird combination of panic and alcohol that still just sounded like screaming. 

"Alex," he managed to say out loud, for the third time. Still Alexander tapped the finger against his lips again, as if to quiet him. He frowned. 

"Actions speak louder than words, right?" he asked, very quietly. John couldn't think. Alexander finally lowered his hand, trailing his thumb down John's chin to his throat, over his adam’s apple and down to the dip at his collarbone. John swallowed again. Alexander's lips curved into a smirk inches from his own. Then he hooked a finger into the collar of John’s t-shirt and closed the gap. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! :D
> 
> I am on tumblr @tobyzieglerintraining if you want to come yell at me for this or smth


	6. my own worst enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bet you thought it couldn't get any worse, didn't you! Wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pacing may seem off. I don't know. This chapter moves the plot along, but I feel like I was kind of racing to get that done. Anyway, it should still be funny! I hope.
> 
> Alex is a mess.

  


The next thing Alexander knew, the room was spinning and his feet were falling out from under him. He was caught and steadied by, he was _pretty_ sure, the same hands that had pushed him away in the first place, but before he could quite get his bearings John was saying something, his voice high and hoarse. 

“I have to go—” he practically ran in his haste to get away from Alexander, who felt nauseous all of a sudden. Probably the shards of his heart cutting into his stomach. That wasn’t how anatomy worked. Whatever. 

Someone had rushed over to his side, and someone else was swearing profusely in French. Two guesses who those were. 

“You go see if John’s okay,” said Hercules to the patch of air that was still swearing in French. “I’ll deal with this loser.” Strong hands gripped Alexander’s shoulders firmly and pulled him down into a chair. “Okay. Alex. Look at me.” Alexander did. “What the fuck just happened?” Hercules asked, very gently considering the profanity. Alexander opened his mouth, trying to figure out how to reply. 

“Think I’m gonna puke,” was what came out. His stomach was churning, and it _wasn’t_ just from being drunk, he was pretty much certain, but that wasn’t going to make a huge difference when it came to the end result. 

Hercules’ eyes widened. Then, to Alexander’s shock, he found himself bodily lifted from the chair and carried to the men’s room, where Hercules kicked open the door to the big stall and set him in front of the toilet in time for what felt like most of his internal organs to expel themselves through his mouth. 

Hercules, bless him, gathered his hair back. Then he carefully pried Alexander’s fingers from the rim of the toilet bowl to retrieve the hairtie on his wrist. Alexander wasn’t really in a state to notice that it didn’t slide immediately into place until he had stopped retching and tried to sit back, only to run into both of Hercules’ hands tugging at his hair, working it into a short braid instead. 

He bound it with the hairtie and, with a thumb, gently smoothed back a lock in front that had been too short to stay in the braid against Alexander’s now-clammy forehead. For whatever reason, emotionally fragile and still a little (okay, very) drunk as he was, that was all it took for Alexander to burst into tears. 

John had pushed him away. Alexander had tried to kiss him, and John had pushed him away. 

“Aw, man,” said Hercules, reaching up to flush the toilet with one hand and holding out the other in invitation, “come here, you pathetic little asshole.” Alexander didn’t even mind being called mean names if it meant getting to hide his face in Herc’s broad chest. The world couldn’t find him there. Sober he might have hesitated a second or two, but without inhibitions of any kind he felt no shame in basically crawling into his roommate’s lap. 

“I fucked up,” he said. It came out half-hiccup, and for a second he was afraid he was going to throw up again, not that it would be anything but bile at this point. Then he didn’t, so it was okay. Except it wasn’t, because John pushed him away. He turned back to sob into Herc’s shoulder again. 

“Yeah,” said Herc. “What the fuck even _happened?”_ Alexander shrugged helplessly. 

_“I fucked up,”_ he repeated. Hadn’t Hercules heard him the first time? 

“It looked like you were trying to kiss John?” Poor Herc sounded so _confused,_ Alexander thought. Hercules was herconfused. He stifled a teary giggle and pulled back enough to wipe at his eyes, sniffling. 

“Yeahhh…” 

“…Why…?” Herc asked. 

“I love him,” Alexander told him, voice cracking with a fresh wave of tears. “I love him, Herc. I love John. I just want to kiss his face and give him flowers and suck his dick, okay? ’Cause. I love him.” 

“Oookay,” said Herc, patting his shoulder a little awkwardly. Alexander frowned—what had made it awkward? Was it saying he wanted to suck John’s dick? Yeah, okay, probably that would do it. Herc was great, but he was still _straight,_ (that rhymed that rhymed _that rhymed!)_ and really that was a tmi kind of thing to say to anyone, so probably that _did_ make it awkward. 

John, he remembered _much_ too late, was also straight, probably, which meant not only that Alexander had fucked up _really_ bad—which he’d already known—but also that there was pretty much no chance he’d _ever_ get to suck his dick. That was a dumb reason to cry harder, but here he was. Herc hugged him, not awkwardly anymore, and shifted how he was sitting a little to make sure Alexander was comfortable. He didn’t deserve Herc at all. 

“It’s gonna be okay, man,” said Herc very gently. Alexander nodded. 

“I’m sorry,” he said in his smallest, most contrite voice. 

“I don’t think I’m the one you’re gonna need to apologize to,” Herc pointed out. Alexander tried to say something in response, though he wasn’t sure what, so it just came out as a garbled whine. “Not tonight, though,” Herc added. “Dude, it’s two in the morning, you’ve got class in seven hours.” And Herc had class in six, but he didn’t point that out, even though Alexander knew, because Herc was basically the nicest person on the planet. He nudged Alexander out of his lap so he could stand; Alexander frowned, pressing his palm against the tile—or, more accurately, against the thin sheen of god-knew-what that coated it. 

“The floor’s sticky,” he observed. 

“I’m aware of that,” Herc replied dryly. “Come on, get up.” He offered a hand and, when Alexander took it, swung him up to standing. “Let’s get you home.” 

  


Today in French, John grabbed Lafayette as a conversation partner before Alexander could ask either of them, or, actually, say anything at all. His heart, in his throat since he first woke up this morning to Herc offering him painkillers and reminding him what had happened, dropped through the floor to hurtle towards the hot, fiery center of the earth. Metaphorically speaking. Laf turned away with a half-apologetic glance in Alexander’s direction, leaving him to talk to— 

Fuck. 

“Bonjour,” Thomas drawled, adjusting the sunglasses that Alexander—and everyone else, probably—knew perfectly well he only ever wore to hide bloodshot eyes. “Dispute domestique?” he asked, with a pointed nod toward John. Just like that, Alexander’s hangover got _so much worse._

“Va te faire encule,” he replied. Thomas snorted. Things only went downhill from there—not that there was really any other option. Alexander sat quietly for once, waiting for class to end so he could— 

Aaaand John was out the door before Alexander was even fully out of his seat. He tried to sling his bag over one shoulder and dash after him, but his own momentum nearly pulled him over when someone grabbed the other strap. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Lafayette told him firmly. When Alexander looked up at him, there was a steely glint to his friend’s eyes that kind of made him want to shrink into a tiny unhappy ball. People being upset with him was an everyday occurrence, one he could easily brush off, but that was people _in general._ His friends being mad was a little harder to handle. 

“Okay,” he said. “Do you think if I texted him—?” Lafayette’s eyes narrowed. 

“I think it depends on what you say,” he said pointedly. 

“Yeah, I _know—”_ Alexander tried not to let it come out too snappish. “All I’m gonna say is sorry.” 

“That is probably fine.” Lafayette nodded his approval, though his expression stayed suspicious. “Just _try_ not to do any more damage?” Alexander nodded miserably. “Good. I will see you in George’s class.” With that he sauntered off. Any other day Alexander would have spent a moment pondering the strangeness of Lafayette being the only student allowed to call Professor Washington by his first name, but he was already preoccupied with his phone. 

  


Twentysomething Mutant Ninja Turtle 

  


Today 10:12 AM 

(John I absolutely get why you’re not talking to me right now but I just want you to know I am SO SORRY) 

(Drunk me has royally fucked up once again and I sincerely apologize for his actions) 

  


Today 10:21 AM 

(No, you know what? It’s wrong of me to try and absolve myself by differentiating between me and drunk me) 

(So, *I* fucked up again and I apologize for *my* actions) 

(I was actually planning not to get drunk at all last night) 

(Specifically so I WOULDN’T fuck up) 

(Because I knew that was a real possibility) 

(But then I did) 

(And now here we are) 

(And I hate that I pissed you off again and I’m so so so sorry) 

  


Today 10:44 AM 

(Anyway, I get why you’re not talking to me) 

(And I’ll give you your space) 

  


Today 11:25 PM 

(Okay sorry I know I said I’d stop texting you but the thing is) 

(The more I think about it, the more I actually am very confused as to why you’re not talking to me) 

(I mean I get that you’re mad but… We’re best friends?) 

(Or… we were… before I fucked up. For which I will continue to apologize until you ask me to stop.) 

(Which you can still do, but I suppose that would require you to actually speak to me in some form, which apparently you’re not planning on doing any time soon.) 

  


Today 12:38 PM 

(Shit) 

(Rereading that message, I realize it could easily have come across a lot nastier than intended) 

(I’m sorry about that too) 

  


Alexander had taken his usual seat in Washington’s classroom, and it wasn’t like he really expected John to sit down next to him, but it still hurt when he walked straight past to the other side of the room, obviously deliberately not looking at him. 

Okay. Okay. This was fine. Alexander could deal with it. Except— 

“Okay!” said Professor Washington. “Does everyone have a partner for the presentations next week?” There was a general sound of assent. Alexander looked toward John, who still didn’t look back, instead turning toward Lafayette and saying something. Lafayette’s eyes widened, and when he looked at Alexander over the top of John’s head it was a little guiltily, but he still nodded. 

Today was the worst. 

“Who _doesn’t_ have a partner?” Washington asked. Slowly, reluctantly, Alexander raised his hand, only to realize that only one other person was in the same boat—“Okay,” said Washington, looking a touch confused, _shit,_ “that works out… nicely.” _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._ “Aaron, you’ll work with Alex. Why don’t you all take a minute to get together with your partners and plan when you’re going to present.” 

“Aw, shiiiiit,” Alexander heard Thomas hiss in his general direction as Aaron canted his desk around toward him, looking no happier to be put in this position than Alexander was. 

“I thought you were working with Laurens,” he said. 

“So did I,” said Alexander. He had meant to sound sarcastic, but he was pretty sure it came out closer to wistful. Aaron raised his eyebrows. 

“…Well, anyway,” he said, “I take it that’s not happening. Are you all right with sticking to right to privacy?” Alexander shrugged miserably. What he wouldn’t have given for a redo on the day, starting sometime around 11:30 last night. Or before, since a redo on the day meant the _whole_ day, probably. Either would be fine. 

“Whatever.” 

“Kind of refreshing to see you _not_ jumping all over an idea for once,” said Aaron dryly. Alexander said nothing. “And not talking over me.” 

“Yeah, well.” Alexander shrugged again. Aaron sighed. 

“Right. Let’s just get this over with.” 

“So, over the weekend?” said Alexander. Aaron nodded. 

“All right.” 

“Do you have my phone number?” He felt like he should have, but he honestly didn’t remember. Regardless, 

“Just email me,” said Aaron. “It’s not like we’ll be working on this for very long.” 

“Fair enough.” Alexander looked up at the board, where Washington had drawn up a schedule for presentations: they were supposed to be twelve to fifteen minutes each, so there would be four per class period every day next week. Good to know his expectations for their actually filling the time were low. 

“When do you want to present?” Aaron asked. “I was thinking maybe Wednesday—” 

“Let’s go Monday,” Alexander said over him. Aaron wrinkled his nose, which was the closest to making a face Alexander had ever seen him come. “What?” 

“ASB elections are on Monday,” said Aaron. “I’m going to be preoccupied.” 

“It’s fifteen minutes out of your day, Burr, I think you can manage it.” 

“I’d rather wait—” 

“So!” said Washington in his most professorial voice, bringing the dull roar back to silence. “Who wants to go first?” The crickets were definitely Alexander’s overactive imagination, but he still thought he could hear them. “No one?” Washington continued. “Come on, kids, someone has to—” 

“We will.” Alexander raised his hand. Aaron made a sound rather like a hissing cat and tried to seize his arm to pull it down before Washington could see, but too late—he was already writing their names in the top slot. 

“Alex and Aaron. Great.” He didn’t look like he thought it was great, and neither did anyone else, but, whatever. “Who wants to go second?” Two seats over, Thomas and James raised their hands in tandem, but Alexander barely noticed—he was too preoccupied with Aaron snarling at him. 

“I _just said_ I didn’t want—” 

“You also said, ‘let’s just get this over with’,” Alexander hissed back. “We just agreed we’d work on it over the weekend anyway. This way it’ll be _done._ Anyway,” he added, as a slight twinge of guilt hit him, “it’s too late now.” 

“Fine,” Aaron grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest and angling his body away. “Too late now.” 

  


Twentysomething Mutant Ninja Turtle 

  


Today 2:10 PM 

(I know I have no right to be mad at you for anything rn but leaving me to work with fucking Burr) 

(REALLY) 

(That’s cold) 

  


Today 2:31 PM 

(Especially when best friends, I would think, can generally work through even major fuckups like this, right?) 

(It just takes communication) 

  


Today 5:56 PM 

(So whenever you’re ready to speak to me again I really hope you do so we can actually, you know, talk about this) 

(That’s probably what we should have done all along tbh) 

(Just let me know) 

(I’m really really really sorry John) 

(Please believe me) 

  


_Seen 6:02 PM_

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I'm on tumblr @tobyzieglerintraining, where I believe I promised someone that this fic would update this week. Then I had a Spanish paper, and was like, "nooo, there's no wayyyy", but the Spanish paper's turned in now and five hours later here we are. Hope you're all still enjoying it! If so, kudos are great, and I do adore comments :)


End file.
